


An Entrance Somewhere Else

by uniqueinalltheworld



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribull - Freeform, Adoribull Holiday Exchange, Art Nerds, Canon Compliant, Dancing, Dragon Age Quest: Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Food, Halamshiral, Homesickness, M/M, Minor F!Adaar/Josephine Montilyet, The Winter Palace (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 07:11:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8739661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uniqueinalltheworld/pseuds/uniqueinalltheworld
Summary: Dorian and the Iron Bull went to Halamshiral to help the Inquisitor thwart an assassin. The assassin turned out to be... well, still the most of their problems, but Marquis Herbert du Serault VIII made a close second.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lafillechanceuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lafillechanceuse/gifts).



> _“We keep to our usual stuff, more or less, only inside out. We do on stage the things that are supposed to happen off. Which is a kind of integrity, if you look on every exit being an entrance somewhere else.” --Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead_

“You’ve gotta try these.” Even muffled by a half pound of chocolates and one hundred Orlesians being pretentious, Dorian would recognize the sound of his lover’s voice anywhere. Bull thrust a dainty-looking crystal hors devors plate piled high with tiny desserts at Dorian, who took it with the creeping feeling that somewhere, somehow, his mother was watching him holding _food_ at a _party_ and judging him. A nibble, of course, was acceptable, expected even, but a whole plate of tiny, artful pastries--it was madness, it was gluttony, it was...actually seasoned. Dorian popped another cluster of sugared, spicy almonds into his mouth and crunched happily. His mother’s judgement could stuff it. 

“They have a whole table of ‘exotic’ desserts.” Bull grinned at him. “From ‘The Distant North.’” 

“I’d be offended if it hadn’t been more than a year since I’d had modak,” Dorian answered, biting into a sweet coconut-nutmeg dumpling and almost moaning aloud his satisfaction.

“Had you pegged for a chili-chocolate guy,” Bull said, popping another into his mouth from his own plate. 

Dorian raised an eyebrow, glancing down at the assortment of barfi and sandesh and other Tevinter confections Bull had grabbed for him. There was a tiny corner of the plate reserved for the spiced chocolates Bull was referring to, but for the most part, it was Tevene all the way. “No you hadn’t,” Dorian said fondly. 

“You calling me a liar, Vint?”

“You calling me a Vint, Tal Vashoth?” 

Bull gave Dorian’s shoulder a gentle bump as he settled next to him, leaning on the railing of the balcony overlooking the lower gardens of the Winter Palace. 

“I tried to learn how to recreate modak once,” Dorian swirled the wine remaining in his glass as he spoke. The floral spices on his tongue went surprisingly well with his Orlesian red. “It went rather horribly. I got the hang of folding the dough well enough, but the filling was just all wrong.”

“Probably didn’t have the right ingredients,” Bull shrugged. It was still new, this gentleness between them. There had been plenty of sex, of illicit touch and filthy murmurings, but this--standing with shoulders touching, warm even through layers of uniform, discussing their pasts, their homelands--this was new, and stranger, more exciting, than anything Dorian had done before. “Bet you could do it, if we got Morris to order some stuff for you. He’d probably be thrilled to flex some muscle on some of his new Tevinter connections. Get you some good cardamom and nutmeg and shit.”

“Bull, not to ruin the moment, but is that a label card on your shirt?” 

Bull sniggered like a child telling a dirty joke, then nodded proudly. “I got it off the khao lam. I figure I should warn people upfront.” 

Dorian squinted at the filigreed cursive on the label. “My Orlesian is a bit rusty. Surely that doesn’t say--”

Dorian was interrupted by an opportunity to eavesdrop on a man he vaguely recognized as the Marquis of Serault and an increasingly flustered-looking Josephine. 

The odd part, of course, was that Josephine did not _get_ flustered. At least, not with people she didn’t know. Dorian had once watched her talk an assassin into apologizing for interrupting her afternoon tea, and then into staying to clean up the stained tablecloth afterwards. In fact, Dorian had only seen Josephine flustered on two occasions. One had involved Bull’s nudity, and the other had been the result of the Inquisitor presenting her with a pristine bouquet of Antivan violets, but she was certainly flustered now.

“You see your Grace, I understand your...eagerness and I am certain that there are... emotions that the Inquisitor does feel for you, but Anaan being of such...particular breeding. She would surely be anticipating a more...humble affectation, and while your...enthusiasm for the interests of the Inquisition is obviously not unwelcome.... You yourself are obviously an advantageous match and anyone would be lucky to--”

“I see! Quite right, Lady Montilyet. I would never want the Lady Adaar to feel I was ashamed of her prior social standing. Or worse, that my suit was somehow a mockery of her, nay, of all she has accomplished. A public declaration of sentiment, then! Surely, if I profess my affections before the entire court of Orlais there can be no confusion regarding the seriousness of my intent.”

“Oh, I think there is some confusion,” Josephine muttered darkly. Louder, she said, “Marquis, if you will excuse me, I find myself in need of more wine.” 

Dorian glanced towards Bull, who appeared to still be gazing intently at the flower garden, a laugh hidden behind his hand. 

“How much did you overhear?” Even Bull jumped a bit. Josephine could move eerily silently when she wanted to. 

“Is he doing what I think he’s doing, boss?” Bull was suddenly all business.

“If you think he is proposing marriage to the Inquisitor when the ball reconvenes for the opening dance, then yes, he is. Very publicly. And very disadvantageously. I am charging the two of you with the task of not, under any circumstances, allowing this disaster to occur.” 

“Can’t we just _ask_ him not to propose tonight?” Dorian seemed to be in the business of disappointing his mother this evening. She had always despaired of his inability to grasp the subtleties of the Alea. 

“Marquis Hubert is not a man whom I would want to disappoint,” said Josephine carefully. 

“Is he an asshole, then?” Bull looked excited at the prospect of a legitimate excuse to hit something. 

“Oh goodness no! By all accounts he’s a lovely man, if you can pry him away from his art long enough to have a conversation with him.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Josephine grimaced. “On the rare occasion he can be unearthed from his studio, he uses the opportunity to donate a portion of his more than substantial personal wealth to the Inquisition’s coffers. I would hate for a romantic disappointment to... complicate such a habit.” 

“Stop the proposal, don’t piss him off in the process. Got it.” Bull tossed the last of the pastries he’d picked up into his mouth and grinned at Josephine. “We can do that.” 

“And the Iron Bull?” 

Bull nodded, standing up straight. 

“Please remove the ‘may be spicy’ card from your sash and return it to the appetizer from whence it came.”

“Respectfully, ma'am, it was on the khao lam and I have an ethical objection to replacing it.”

Josephine’s mouth twitched. “Perhaps you could just take it out of your sash, then.” 

When Josephine returned to the Marquis, she spoke almost imperceptibly louder, allowing Bull and Dorian to eavesdrop without effort as Marquis Hubert raised his voice to match. “I find my interests lie more in scholarship than in hunting,” he was saying, “for example, the ring I have awaiting Lady Adaar in my guest quarters has a fascinating history. I couldn’t imagine a proposal being complete without it. You see in the Blessed Age it was handed down from the Marquis Hubert du Serault the First--I, of course, am Hubert the Eighth--to his daughter, Odette, an avid seamstress who...” Bull and Dorian didn’t wait to hear the end of the story before they took off for the nobles’ guest quarters. 

  


“Hmm,” Bull paused at the end of the long hallway, stymied. “I would have thought Hubert was less important than Prosper.” Bull had assumed that breaking in would be a matter of finding the correct family crest on a door and picking the lock. Instead, he and Dorian found themselves facing row upon row of identical, featureless entry doors. Prosper de Monfort’s had been unlocked, and they had discovered the owner of the room by dint of hearing a distinctly non-Lady Monfort-like voice ask, “Prosper, is that you? I have been such a naughty boy,” and Bull and Dorian had made a hasty retreat.

Dorian rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t matter how important he is, it matters how old the noble house is. Look--the Monfort rooms are five down from the Empress’s chambers; Monfort was the fifth territory conquered by Drakon in the Divine age.” Bull grimaced. That did make sense. He hated to admit he was out of his depth here, but nothing in his Ben-Hassrath training prepared him for the Game. A bard or two, sure, or eavesdropping, but the Qun had cared more about which nobles had how many men at arms than they did the latest trend in taffeta gowns.

He glanced at the plumed masks of the guards, standing in front of the only door with a crest on it. They had run into no less than three bards so far, all doing more or less exactly what they were doing in the unattended guest quarters, and Celene’s guards seemed to have a rather laissez-faire approach to palace security. Then again, no one had attempted to enter Celene’s chambers thus far, and Bull supposed if they chased after every single bard who illegally entered the noble’s wing they’d have no time to get any real guarding done. Prosper de Monfort’s rooms were, indeed, five doors down. 

“Great. Do you remember when Serault was conquered?” Bull asked, “because I don’t. Dates aren’t really my thing. More of a people person.”

“Not remotely.” Dorian took in a deep breath before he straightened his tunic and approached the lefthand guard. 

“Pardon me,” he said. Bull kept a respectful distance and watched his lover work. “I was wondering if you happened to know which of these rooms belongs to Marquis Hubert of Serault? My companion and I are...expected to pay him a visit.” 

The guard nodded impassively. It was as much confirmation as Bull thought them likely to get. Dorian, though, wasn’t finished. “Such a shame you fine specimens are missing the ball,” he said, “the music, the food--the outfits in particular are quite inspired. Why I saw--” Dorian stood on tiptoe to whisper something in the guard’s helmeted ear. 

“Marquis Hubert is three doors to my right,” the guard said abruptly. She jerked her plumes in the direction she intended, then returned to standing ramrod straight. 

“Many thanks,” Dorian told her. 

“What did you say to her?” Bull asked when he and Dorian were crouched next to the door. 

“I told her that the Lord of Jader was wearing a doublet with cut sleeves.” 

Bull tried to picture the lord’s outfit. He couldn’t recall any daring sleeve choices. “But that’s not even true, is it?”

It was difficult to see Dorian’s face, turned away from him as it was in the hallway’s half-shadow, but for a brief moment Bull was certain Dorian looked almost hollow--something flickering beneath the surface, horribly tired and achingly sad. “I’m rather afraid it was.” 

Bull pressed a hand to Dorian’s shoulder, not quite certain why he was comforting him but unwilling to resist the urge. 

Dorian took another breath and then became himself again. Bull tried not to think of how easy it was for him to do that, for both of them to. “So,” he flashed Bull a smile, “have any lockpicks on you?” 

It perhaps said something about both of them as people that each kept a full set of lockpicks, a vial of ink, and a pen knife on their persons at all times, but they certainly came in handy. 

It was especially handy to have a spare after the door melted Bull’s pick and tension wrench on the first try. “Shit!” he swore, dropping the pick on the ground, where it glowed white hot and slumped uselessly out of shape. The door flared, an elaborate series of runes lighting up an angry red around the keyhole and Bull glowered at it, still blowing on his blistering finger. 

Dorian tsked, dabbing a small dot of regeneration potion onto Bull’s fingertip and letting go of his hand after giving it a small kiss. Bull grimaced at the feeling of his skin crawling back into rightness, but it was a damn sight better than not being able to hold his axe properly later because of a stupid burn. 

Dorian then turned to the door, rolled his eyes, placed a hand over the place the runes had glowed brightest, and _shoved_. Bull saw Dorian put his shoulder into it, felt the pulse of magic at the same time as he heard the creak of the aged door hinges. The door didn’t appear to budge, but there was a soft pop and a puff of black smoke, and then Dorian was kneeling down, his own lock picks in his hands. 

“Dorian, how the fuck do you know how to do that?” 

“Oh, they tried this on the circle ingredients cabinets all the time. How else did you think I got extra lyrium potions?” Dorian didn’t have Sera’s blase attitude or Varric’s profane concentration, but he got the door open just as quickly as either of them could. Faster than Cole, who Bull privately thought had only learned what a lock was, much less a lockpick, a couple weeks prior to having a use for the information. 

“What the fuck did you need extra lyrium potions for? Won’t the Vints give you as many as you need for experiments and shit?” 

“Lube.” Dorian appraised the room at a glance before heading over to the messy desk. He rummaged a bit in the papers, flipped open a small box, then snapped it shut again, tossing it to Bull and turning to flounce back down the hallway. “It tingles. Also unsanctioned experiments in time magic.” 

Bull allowed his mouth to open and shut several times before pocketing the ring box and following his lover. He really should not find that quite so hot.

  


The ring, Dorian reflected as they made their way back to the ballroom, had been a bit simpler than he’d expected for a man as high in stature as the Marquis. The band was silver, patinaed with age and inlaid with what appeared to be not gems but shimmering bits of the famous Serault stained glass. Hubert had clearly been telling the truth about its value being sentimental and historical rather than monetary, and looking at it had caused Dorian a stir of exasperated warmth for the ridiculous man.

The handoff had been so smooth and efficient Dorian hadn’t even seen Bull near Leliana, let alone giving her the small box, but Bull assured him their spymaster had it now. Perhaps if Hubert were a good boy, the heirloom would find its way back to him in due time. Leliana was a romantic at heart, and Dorian doubted she would sell such a trinket to anyone else. Extorting Hubert, however, was most certainly on the table.  
Unfortunately, whatever stealth Bull possessed, Anaan had none of it. Dorian tracked their illustrious leader with his eyes from his place with Bull in an alcove, watching as she bumped into two different maids carrying serving trays, accidentally elbowed a bard dressed as the Lady of Val Chevin, and then proceeded to announce proudly to the real Lady Chevin that she had just started practicing necromancy before topping it all off by asking the _Dowager_ if she could perhaps have a dance later on. It would have been adorable if Dorian hadn’t thought he could actually hear the soft ticking sound of her court approval draining away. 

He was, of course, not the only person to notice the Inquisitor. Marquis Hubert made a beeline for her, despite Josephine’s increasingly desperate efforts to keep him away. His attempt to reach Anaan would have been successful had Bull not stepped smoothly in front of him, saying, “I know it is a bit gauche to ask like this, Marquis, but I wonder if you would favor me with a turn around the garden terraces.” 

Bull seized the Marquis’ arm and gave Dorian a desperate little head jerk-- _get the boss out of here_ \-- before dragging the Marquis away. “Lovely windows,” Dorian heard Bull say before his voice faded into the garden babble. “I’m a great admirer of the way they reflect the candlelight in the ballroom.” 

Dorian went after Anaan, dragging her away from the group around the Dowager as tactfully as possible. “If you need to do anything furtive, now would be an excellent time,” he told her. 

“I have been meaning to poke around above that garden trellis,” Anaan said. She had huge earnest doe eyes and always sounded a bit like she was lost in thought. Dorian adored her. “I didn’t want to upset Josephine, though.”

“We are catching an assassin. Even our Ambassador knows sometimes needs must,” Dorian told her. 

Anaan nodded vigorously and grinned. “Did you and Bull sneak off to deal with ‘needs must’ earlier?”

“Something like that,” Dorian told her dryly. “Oh and Inquisitor?” Anaan glanced at him. “You should try to arrive back to the dance er... fashionably late.” 

“Is that a real thing? I try to be punctual.” 

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Dorian asked, hoping against hope it was.

Anaan shrugged and made her exit. “I’ll try to be there after the second bell, then, I guess. Tell Lady Josephine to save a dance for me.” 

Dorian blew out a relieved breath as the Inquisitor left to go exploring. “Fashionably late.” What in the name of Andraste was “fashionably late?”

Dorian trailed into the gardens to find Bull and the Marquis still arm in arm, chatting merrily about something. Or, at least, the Marquis was chatting. Bull was listening, and for all the world appeared truly fascinated by whatever it was Hubert was saying about iron oxides and their role in glass tinting. 

“It can’t just be any rust, naturally, but sometimes collection from the most unlikely places can yield the most fascinating hues...” Dorian stopped listening, instead watching Bull’s face, the fondness there. He felt a surge of--well, it didn’t matter what it was he felt. 

Also unimportant was the softness of Bull’s eye, how deeply it contrasted with the stormy, piercing thing Dorian remembered from their first interactions. How much that gentleness suited Bull now. Dorian swallowed, and the first bell rang. 

The three of them--not that Dorian was really part of the pair, of course, just that he happened to be nearby--made their way back to the ballroom only to be greeted by Josephine and her sister. 

Lady Yvette, Dorian quickly recognized, was flightier than her elder sister, less driven by ambition, more impetuous, but in her own way just as dangerous. As they spoke, Dorian had the creeping realization that he was standing face to face with the one woman in the world who could bend Josephine Montilyet to her will. And the only thing she used that power for was art supplies. 

Yvette was ecstatic to hear about Hubert’s interest in stained glass, and even more excited to know that he wished to know more about combining it with new techniques from the world of oil painting. Before anyone could do anything to prevent it, Hubert was seized and taken on a whirlwind tour of the portrait around the grand hall, both nobles apparently speaking at the same time and understanding one another perfectly. 

“He certainly is a lot,” Dorian remarked dryly once they were alone again. Yvette ferried Hubert from one identical portrait of Drakon to another, gesticulating about brush strokes.

Bull chuckled. “He’s sweet. Excitable. Kinda reminds me of you.” 

“What? Bull, that man just spoke to you for over half an hour on the various advantages of different minerals as ingredients for dyeing serault glass red. Not even different colors. Just three different techniques for red. The only reason he _stopped_ talking to you about it is because he got distracted by the wall art.” 

“I like a guy who knows a lot about what he’s passionate about.” Dorian did not, would not, absolutely refused to think of the way Bull had kissed him the night before as he rambled on about the benefits of various base designs for different kinds of ritual circles. Of how he’d let him go on for hours with that soft grin, asking nothing in return. “Plus, the only thing leaning against that wall right now is you, Dorian.” 

“So, amatus? Am I not art?” 

Bull pressed his lips to Dorian’s by way of answer. Dorian’s cheeks heated as courtiers whirled past their alcove, heralding the start of the first dance. 

  


The second bell rang. Bull wasn’t quite sure why the Inquisitor wasn’t present already, but she definitely wasn’t going to be more than a little late. 

“Lady Josephine,” Hubert announced, “I am deeply sorrowful, but my servants tell me they cannot find my ancestor’s ring.” 

“Oh dear,” Josephine was good. She really did sound shocked and dismayed. “I suppose you shall have to call the proposal off, then, until you find it.” 

“Nonsense!” Hubert seemed in good spirits. Bull winced. He’d been worried about that. “I know what I told you earlier made it seem I was determined to do it only with the ring, but I must confess I find myself relieved. One ought to change with the times, and I am now eager to fashion a piece for my lady that combines the new and old--a symbol befitting our union, and our stations, with her tastes in mind.”

Josephine let out a choked cough. “While I’m certain that will be lovely, Marquis Hubert, do you really think--”

Anaan opened the ballroom door. 

“My Lady!” cried the Marquis, rushing towards the door. Bull, Dorian, Josephine, and Yvette trailed after him. This, Bull thought, was better than a Tevene farce. He wondered if he could take a plate of modaks for Dorian when they all had to leave the Winter Palace in shame and humiliation. Or perhaps the Inquisition could retaliate against the slight by hiring all of Celene’s best pastry chefs out from under her. 

“Marquis, I beg you, consider how much more dignified, more moving, it would be if--”

“Oh stop it, Josie, won’t you? You’re being preposterous.” Leliana sauntered up behind them on silent feet. “Marquis, our ambassador is trying to spare your feelings but the truth is Lady Adaar’s heart belongs to another, and it would no doubt be embarrassing and disadvantage us all for you to propose and have your suit turned down in such a public manner.”

Josephine turned to Anaan, who had scarcely made it three steps into the ballroom before being rushed and freezing in terror. “Inquisitor, I--Anaan. My Lady, is this true?”

Leliana looked like she wanted to smash her dearest friend’s head into a pillar, and Bull couldn’t entirely blame her. Anaan and Josephine had been gone on one another as long as they had been acquainted. 

Anaan was staring intently at the patch of tile by her dress boots, a flush darkening her rose-gray cheeks. “I--I understand, you know, if my feelings are not reciprocated, Lady Ambassador, but I am afraid my heart has belonged to you since the moment we met. I understand this may make our working situation untenable and I am fully willing to--” 

Anaan didn’t stop talking until Josephine put a hand on her chin and gently directed the Inquisitor’s gaze to her own face. “Lady Adaar, may I please have this dance?” 

Anaan flushed even more deeply. “Er, can I give you the next one? It’s not that I don’t want to I swear I really do it’s just that I think the duchess over there sort of wants to murder me and the scary witch outside said I should dance with her to figure out what’s going on and--”

Josephine laughed. “Whenever you have the opportunity will be perfectly acceptable, my Lady.” 

The Marquis of Serault had scarcely raised his eyebrows in shock at this turn of events before he recovered his wits entirely. “Oh! My goodness, I intended spontaneity and romance, but never would I wish to be improprietous! My apologies to all involved, but particularly you, Lady Josephine. I cannot imagine what it is like to hear the object of your affections be prattled on about by another.” He straightened his doublet. “In this case, Lady Yvette, would you care to have the next dance with me? I was fascinated by your discussion of Black Age foreshortening technique and would be remiss to lose your expertise.” 

Yvette curtsied, a grin just visible below her masked cheeks. “I’d be delighted, Marquis. Though you should know I really prefer to lead.” 

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, Lady Montilyet. And please, call me Hubert.”

Dorian made it as long as it took for the couples to get out of earshot. Then he began to giggle, and then to laugh. “After all that, this is how it ends?” he asked. “All that nonsense, and the world’s still going to end, and Celene’s still going to be assassinated by someone tonight, and now we’re just going dancing?” He wiped a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye.

Bull looked at him, thought about passion, about a man determined to unlock everything that didn’t have a key. He thought about gentleness, as well, but mostly, he thought of Tevinter, a candlelit ballroom. The taste of wine mixed with cardamom. About the things neither of them ever thought they would be permitted to have. “Hey Dorian,” he said, “let’s dance.” 

Dorian took Bull’s hand and led him onto the floor.


End file.
